The Alpha Contingency
by Sorge
Summary: To catch a criminal, sometimes you have to work outside the law. A dangerous conspiracy threatens to bring down the EPF from within and the Director is willing to go to any lengths to keep it from happening. Two unlikely heroes will get a chance to explore the darker side of the island as they fight to uncover the truth behind the sinister Alpha Contingency. REBOOT.


**A/N: This story is a re-boot of the popular but admittedly dated TAC saga. I want to stress that this is not a direct re-telling of that story, but it does borrow several characters and scenarios updated for modern Club Penguin after Operation Blackout.**

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><p>The room where Conely sat was very warm, almost tropical, even. The thermostat on the wall was cranked up to max in an effort to keep out the winter chill that blew against the two-way glass door. Puddles of wet slush on the floor were vaporizing, dragged in on boots and flipper feet.<p>

The walls were plastered with colorful notices and advertisements, giving Conely a slight headache. He sat listlessly in a plastic chair, the folding kind, squirming in his thick black EPF-issue parka. There was a damp ticket in his hand that bore the number '42'. A bright red electronic number on the wall said '40'.

He was hungry and uncomfortable in the wet heat, but said nothing. The big moment was almost here and his stomach was twisting up in knots. The number on the wall ticked up a notch. It was almost time.

Conely glanced around the small waiting room and realized that he was the last remaining penguin. When he had arrived early this morning, every chair had been full with a penguin dressed exactly the same way as him, all looking just as nervous. He took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on the door that he'd have to enter through in a moment's time.

_Relax, _he told himself,_ it's just your future_

The number ticked over to '42'. His stomach dropped about three floors. On cue, the door swung open and he instantly stood to his feet.

"Agent Conely? The director will see you now," a secretarial aide informed him.

Summoning all of his courage, Conely nodded curtly and marched forward on auto-pilot. His face was a mask of professional calm, but inside, his heart was racing. He desperately wished for a set of sunglasses to hide his eyes, but he didn't yet rate to wear them as part of his uniform. Today he would find out if he ever would.

The director's office was spartan and meticulously clean. The Director herself sat behind an oaken desk at the opposite end of the room, and a red penguin in a business suit stood next to her. Conely immediately came to attention.

"Ma'am, agent-trainee Conely reporting," he said simply, fixing his eyes on the wall behind her.

"Thank you, Trainee," the Director said politely. "Have a seat."

Conely conscientiously shut the door behind him and slid into a chair opposite the EPF director. He sat up straight and didn't move a muscle while the Director appraised him coolly, looking him up and down. He wondered what she was looking for. Fear? Anxiety?

It was the formally-dressed agent who broke the silence.

"Here are the trainee's results, Director." He produced a thin file folder from the folds of his jacket and passed it off to here.

"Thank you, Jet Pack." She accepted the file and gave it a quick once-over. Conely squirmed, wishing he could read the contents of the dossier himself. What did it say about him?

The Director's face betrayed no reaction, good or bad. She looked up and locked eyes with him, seeming to stare right into his soul. Conely fidgeted uncomfortably.

_Sunglasses,_ he thought. _I definitely need to invest in a pair of sunglasses._

"Well, agent Conely," she said finally, "I'm going to level with you. Your scores were not exceptional. In the Operations and Survival courses, you scored a good thirty points under average." She flipped a page and went on. "In Fieldcraft and Investigation, your scored better than most, but there were twenty other trainees in your group who averaged better scores across every field." Putting down the folder, she donned a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and stared right across the desk at him. "Tell me, agent-trainee Conely, why should I allow you to graduate ahead of any of them?"

Conely searched his soul for a reason and realized that he could not name one. It was true, he hadn't done all that well in training. There were some things he was good at, but coming up with fast answers wasn't one of them.

"Only that I want to protect the island and keep Club Penguin safe," he ventured, giving a canned response. It sounded hollow, even to him. His heart was racing so fast, he couldn't think.

The Director shook her head. "I'm afraid that's not good enough, trainee. We all want that. Got anything else?"

He opened his mouth, shut it, thought for a minute, and then shook his head in defeat.

"No. Not really." Perhaps he'd win some points for honesty.

Jet Pack Guy and the Director were shaking their heads and he could tell that they weren't buying it. He could see his chance at a future as an EPF agent slipping away before his eyes. Desperate, he racked his brain for anything he could say to redeem himself.

Jet Pack Guy held up a flipper to stop him. "Look, Trainee, you did your best," he said, beginning what sounded like a pre-rehearsed speech that he'd probably given many times before. "You tried, and your dedication shows. Not everybody is cut out to be an Agent. A lot of penguins try and we can't take everybody who applies. At least you tried—lots of penguins won't even take that step."

_No, no, no. _His future was evaporating before his eyes as surely as the snow in the waiting room.

"Does this mean you're not accepting me?" he asked as evenly as he could, given the circumstances.

The Director sighed and averted her eyes, feigning interest in the documents on her desk.

"I'm afraid not. Given the nature of your results and on the recommendation of your instructors, we've decided not to graduate you. However, we appreciate your interest and would like you to know that you are welcome to re-test for acceptance into the program in three months' time. That is all."

The words hung in the air like a prison sentence. Conely blinked hard, trying to make sense of what he'd heard. His head swam. Two months of rigorous training to be rejected like this?

The Director stood, signalling the end of the interview. Numbly, Conely got to his feet and turned to go without a word. Jet Pack Guy held the door for him, perhaps as a last awkward gesture of solidarity.

Remembering his composure at the last second, Conely snapped out of his disorientation long enough to shake the Director's offered flipper.

"Thank you for your time," he managed.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," the Director offered. "It happens a lot. I do hope you'll consider trying again some day."

"Keep the jacket," Jet Pack Guy said gruffly. He and Conely looked at each other for a long moment, neither sure what to say. Both looked away awkwardly at the same time, and without another word, Conely left through the door he'd come from. He walked through the lobby of the Everyday Phoning Facility in a daze, past the folding chairs and the electronic number, and out the glass door. He emerged blinking into the ski village.

The cold hit him like a punch, snapping him out of his stupor. The questions began to flood in. Where would he go now? What would he do? What kind of work should he look for? He didn't know where to begin.

With nothing else to do, he just started walking. His wandering footsteps eventually took him to the town where he paused just long enough to buy a pair of sunglasses with his final EPF paycheck before carrying on to the Coffee Shop up the street. The coffee shop doorbell tinkled as he pushed the door open. The barista spared a brief glance over his shoulder before returning to the coffee grinder.

"Just a minute!" he called, putting the finishing touches on a cup of steamed milk and topping it with a healthy dollop of whipped cream. The afternoon shift was the busiest all day, and he was on his own while the manager was out back overseeing the unloading of the truck.

"Order up!" he shouted, sliding the handcrafted hot beverage over the counter. The shop was very full today as penguins tried to beat the cold weather and he was racing to keep up. "Thank you!"

Wiping his hands on his apron, the sky-blue penguin returned to the till and slammed a fresh roll of receipt paper into the machine. Finished, he looked up at the newcomer and broke into a wide grin.

"Hey, agent Conely! Nice shades! Looking sharp, dude! What will it be? The regular?"

"Make it a double shot," the brown penguin sighed. "I'm not having a great day."

"One tall dark double shot espresso, you got it," the barista confirmed, whipping out a permanent marker to scrawl down the order on the side of a paper cup. "What's wrong, dude? You look down in the dumps today."

"My graduation hearing was today," Conely grumbled, leaning on the counter. "It didn't go very well."

"Didn't go well?" the blue penguin repeated, only half-listening as he worked the espresso machine. "How so? Wait... Oh..." His movements slowed as he understood. "Gee, I'm sorry man. That's rough. You were really jazzed on that, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Conely admitted. "I was." He shrugged it off, but his frown hinted at the way he felt.

"So, what are you going to do now?" the barista asked, putting a lid on the hot drink and handing it across.

"I don't know," Conely said with a shrug. "I'll have to think about it. That was my only plan. I guess I'm out of a job."

"Tough luck," the other penguin agreed, sympathizing. "If you want, I could—."

"_GARTH!_" the manager roared. "Get over here! Bring some ice!"

"Uh-oh," the barista grimaced. "It sounds like they tried to offload another anvil on us. I gotta go. You going to be okay?"

Conely waved him off dismissively. "Yeah. Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem! Catch you later!" The energetic blue penguin sprinted off, his green apron flapping behind him. Conely shook his head. The kid sometimes seemed as strung out as the espresso beans he roasted.

Taking his drink to an empty table, he took a seat. He was still wearing his EPF parka. On a whim, he took it off and turned out his pockets. A book of matches, a notebook and a pocket knife scattered on the table. They were now the only possessions to his name. Everything else he owned was EPF property. He really hadn't expected to be turned away: he'd planned his whole future on a career with the agency.

_What now?_ he wondered. Money was going to be an issue soon. Where was he going to make enough coins to pay off his igloo? Puffle herding? He snorted. No chance.

Surely there had to be some place where his skills as an investigator could be put to use. If not with the EPF, then where? Maybe the Club Penguin Times? He made a note. That could be something to check out. This was going to be easier than he'd thought. But there was something else bothering him...

He glanced up. There was a flurry of quick movement as the penguin across the table from him quickly dove into a newspaper. Conely grunted and went back to his coffee. This time, he watched closely from the corner of his vision, eyes hidden behind his new shades. Two pairs of eyes glanced sidelong back at him.

This kicked off his investigative instincts all at once. Why were these two penguins eyeing him? Both wore black and seemed to be drinking their coffee in microscopic sips, drawing it out over a long period of time. One was wearing an obviously fake moustache. He shook his head. It was rookie stakeout behaviour.

"What?" he called loudly, just to let them know he wasn't falling for it.

The two penguins made a show of ignoring his query, but he was annoyed enough that he got up and walked over on his own. Letting his shadow fall over the table, he got their attention. "Can I help you?" he asked evenly, but in a way that made it clear that he wasn't going to take any nonsense.

The two penguins looked at each other, and seemed to reach a silent consensus.

"That depends," the moustached one began. "Are you an agent?"

Conely wondered what he should say. "No," he said honestly, wondering what kind of reaction it would bring.

"You look like an agent," the second penguin observed.

"I'm not," Conely said firmly. "Or rather, not anymore. I'm an ex-agent," he lied, stretching the truth a little. "You boys weren't thinking of causing any trouble, were you?"

"Tell you what, why don't you just go on your merry way and forget you ever saw anything?" Moustache growled.

"Why don't you take that stupid thing off your face and get out of here before I get mad?" Conely retorted. He was seriously frustrated after what had happened earlier and was in the mood for a fight.

"You know what?" Moustache began, starting to rise from his seat. But Conely wasn't watching him. He was looking at the other penguin who had stealthily started to move. So when No-Moustache suddenly sprang up and tried to fling his scalding-hot cup of coffee in Conely's face, the agent-trainee was already ducking under the attack and moving to put the bald-faced penguin in an arm bar.

They wrestled for a moment and managed to overturn the table, eliciting a scream from a nearby patron. Suddenly everyone was running around and panicking and Conely lost sight of Moustache in the chaos. He managed to subdue his adversary with some moves he'd picked up in training, and was surprised when they worked exactly like he'd been told they would. He was still looking for the second attacker when a blow caught him on the side of the head and send him reeling.

Moustache stood above him, face contorted in rage as he swung again with a collapsible police baton that he'd been concealing. Conely blocked it with his forearm, deflecting the brunt of the blow, and disarmed the other penguin on the backswing. Behind him, the other penguin got shakily to his feet and looked at Conely with undisguised menace in his eyes.

Conely adopted a fighting stance, bobbing back and forth on the balls of his feet. It was two on one and he wasn't all that confident in his fighting skills, but rage drove him on. If he'd been a real agent, it would have been his job to stop these creeps. He wished he had the training for this, but what little he had would have to do.

They came at him together, one high, one low, flippers extended in a tackle. He ducked under the haymaker and simply brought his knee up into No-Moustache's face, dropping him for the count. But Moustache wasn't having it. He pressed the assault, brushing aside Conely's clumsy blocking attempts and driving for his throat with a straight punch faster than Conely could counter.

Conely felt the wind leave him in one explosive rush and dropped like a sack of coffee beans. He clutched at his throat, fighting for breath. Moustache laughed and delivered a sharp kick to the downed penguin's ribs. Conely gasped and rolled away, trying to make distance, but his attacker kept after him, pummeling him mercilessly with a flurry of hard kicks, overturning tables and knocking many dishes to the floor.

Enraged, Conely took the opportunity to sweep his opponent's feet from under him and Moustache came down in a heap right on top of him. They grappled on the ground, clawing at each other's beaks and faces. With great effort, Conely lodged a flipper in the other penguin's eye and forced him to arc his head away. At the same time, Moustache got his flippers around Conely's throat and began to squeeze, choking the breath from him. Moustache howled with delight and it seemed that it was all over.

_BONG._ Moustache's eyes widened in surprise before they rolled back in his head and he slumped over, unconscious. His fake moustache clung disgustingly to his beak by a single thread.

Garth dropped the empty steel coffee urn on the ground and eyed the unconscious penguin distastefully.

"There's a moustache joke to be made here, but I'm not sure what it is," he said wistfully, hauling Conely to his feet. "I'll think of one later."

"Thanks, buddy," Conely panted, dusting himself off and eyeing the destroyed café around him. "I think we might both be out of work for a little while."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," a gruff voice said from the doorway. Garth and Conely turned to see Jet Pack Guy standing in the door, looking a little bit disheveled. He held a refillable coffee thermos in his hand, clearly surprised by the mayhem he'd walked in on. "These are the Black Bandits. You may recognize them from the EPF's most wanted list." He nodded approvingly. "That's some good work, agent. Why don't you come by the office tomorrow? I think we may have misjudged you."

"What about me?" Garth wanted to know. "I think I might be a little bit fired..."

"We're always looking for new talent," Jet Pack Guy assured him. "I think we may have a place for you in the agency."


End file.
